We didn't have enough money to live in a cave at the top of the hill. Up high where the waves didn't crash. Where the exhaust foam didn't break upon the sidewalk shore. Where the sand-crab-ass bottle and can hoarders were too tired and hungry to climb for the bounty of a holiday party or a tuesday night's unwarranted yet ever welcomed celebration of our ability to purchase even count boxes of beer. All of which claiming to be unique and offering not just a refreshing, intoxicating wash for a dry throat but a different experience. It's sweet of them to try but it always ends up the same :

 

Ika drinking beers faster than all of us and berating Mundo for no reason other than its become a hobby of hers.

 

Mundo Hunched over some sick, sleek, current-gen controller gaming, making my avatar more rich than I ever could, while somehow simultaneously SnapChatting everyone he's ever met.

 

Amil in a corner chair, face aglow with muddled text locking in the next joyless yet satisfying fuck, laughing at the jokes that matter.

 

Cade with a calm smile spectating as if he didn't care. Ready for the next B1,000 conversation with myself that would start soaked with intellectual brilliance and end dry and chaffed by the busy shoulders of nearly innumerable and useless musings.

 

The Chief, constantly in and out, back up to his cave. A jest here, a smoke there, an uncountable number of hellos, goodbyes, whats ups, and laters.

 

Phoenix with endless Two-dimensional entertainment. With an endless drive to frame the existence of the new 20-sided sub-culture.  He's the king of critical hits.

 

Froggy, making face. Making pastries far too easy to consume. Making my oldest friend, The Chief, warm at night. Smile in the morning. Cold when my assumtion is a lie and fetal, bent, around something that was before it wasnt.

 

Thelonius causing trouble with yours truly on equal level. Unable to sit still, matching drink, and harassing with great precision. We two are both equally within the madness.

 

Big Fish and Little Fish, coming by infrequently but still leaving their mark. And their clothes. Punkrock Duos make the best company, the most noise, and somehow always leave their shit.

 

I took a drive to the top of the hill to see how the cavemen there lived. Turns out: way better. They had caves made of polished wood. Paths flattened and laid out in an earthbound weave, leaving no question as to the direction of anyone willing to venture to their hidden peak.

 

But fuck em.

 

Maybe shit rolls down hill,

 

But even when were faced,

 

Were quick enough to throw it back.